


Epitaph

by irisbleufic



Category: Hamlet - Shakespeare
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-01
Updated: 2009-08-01
Packaged: 2017-11-12 03:45:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/486330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Good my lord, will you see the players well bestowed? Do you hear, let them be well used, for they are the abstract and brief chronicles of the time. After your death you were better have a bad epitaph than their ill report while you live.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>—Hamlet; Act 2, Scene 2</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Epitaph

**Author's Note:**

> Written in August of 2009.

The news had come suddenly, borne on the shrieks of servants in the corridors.

Bernt had scarcely had sufficient wits about him to pull on his well-patched dressing gown, much less answer Grethe's fearful, demanding whispers. Their son had stirred in his pile of blankets on the floor, one arm thrown restlessly across his eyes.

"Father?" he had asked. "What's all the noise?"

"Hush, Jens," Bernt had hissed, pressing closer to the door. "I'm trying to listen." 

Grethe had been wide awake by then, sitting up straight in bed, her eyes a pale, restless glimmer framed against the half-light of the window. They had retired early, for they had intended an early departure. Bernt had not liked the King's demeanor in the wake of their aborted performance, not one whit. And he had dared not ask the half-mad Prince what he'd been playing at. Why their continued presence and occasional presentation of brief comedies had been tolerated during Hamlet's exile, he'd had no earthly idea. Perhaps to cheer the restless court, he'd thought.

" _Murder!_ " came the shout. "Bless me, they're all dead! The King and Queen, and oh, the Prince! The _Prince!_ Curse my eyes, there's so much blood—"

Bernt had drawn back from the door as if struck. Prince Hamlet. _Dead_.

"Oh, Father," Jens had murmured, softly, in tears. "What should we do?"

"Stay put," Bernt had said, trudging stiffly back to bed. His feet had seemed leaden, as if all his fifty-four years had heard the death-knell and taken it for news of his own approaching end. "We'll seek out that scholar, the Prince's friend, first thing in the morning. If they do not come for us first."

"Are we in danger?" Grethe had asked, clutching at his arm as he settled beside her.

"I don't know, my love. But please, try and sleep if you can."

Alas, it was not so. Bernt awakened to an urgent rapping and Grethe's strong hands fisted in his nightshirt.

Jens stood at the foot of the bed, eyes trained on the door. "Who goes there?" he called, struggling for control of his voice.

"Geirr, servant to Fortinbras the King. You will turn out and present yourselves!"

"Very well," said Bernt, rising, gesturing for his son to collect their belongings. "We ask only a few moments to dress and to prepare. We are but humble players, lodged here of late for the court's ease and enjoyment. What does his Lordship require of us?"

"I cannot say," replied Geirr, with surprising mildness. "I'll wait and take you to him."

Some minutes later, more disheveled than presentable, the three of them followed Geirr—tall, severe, and fair, just as Bernt had imagined him—down endless icy corridors. The morning light was harsh, cutting blade-like arcs across the cold flagstones. Grethe gripped Bernt's wrist tightly as they walked, fussing with her veil. Jens stared silently at his feet, hands clasped tautly behind his back.

The doors of the Great Chamber swung open before them, attended by unseen soldiers. Across the distance, Bernt could see Fortinbras of Norway seated stiffly in the late King's chair, as if he had not quite found the most comfortable spot. He was flanked by several soldiers on each side, nearly all of them as tall and severe as Geirr, and also by a few familiar faces.

At Fortinbras's right hand stood the scholar, white and exhausted beneath his shock of light reddish-brown hair. He looked as if he'd been permitted as little time to set himself to rights as Bernt and his family had been given. 

Grethe's grip on Jens's wrist tightened. Protectively, Jens drew closer to her.

Fortinbras looked them up and down with tired, yet piercing grey eyes.

"Good morrow, noble players. Please state your names and your purpose in Elsinore."

Bernt was taken somewhat aback by Young Norway's lack of ceremony. If anything, his underlying demeanor suggested something of weary bewilderment. Had he been summoned to quell the chaos, or had he merely walked in on it? With so many soldiers about, the latter seemed unlikely. Then again, they _had_ lately been on the march.

"I am Bernt of Roskilde," he said, keeping his tone and his breath even, "and this is my wife, Grethe, and my son, Jens. As your Majesty most sagely knows, we have been players in these parts for many a long year. Our travels have often taken us farther afield, but nowhere have we ever received so warm a welcome as at the hands of the late Prince Hamlet, may God rest his soul. Should you require us to remain your service, that we would oblige gladly. However, if our presence hinders—"

Fortinbras raised a hand, nodding as if to suggest he'd heard enough. One of his bodyguards stepped forward, questioning him with a glance. He shook his head, and the guard stepped back into place. Grethe's grasp slackened, and Jens released a sigh of relief.

Although severe, Fortinbras was not known for needless cruelty.

"There is much chaos here that requires amendment," Fortinbras said. "I give you leave to say your goodbyes, but I would not trouble you to remain in the midst of such misfortune. My men will have little time for such pleasures as you offer."

Bernt bowed, catching the scholar's eye as he rose. The young man looked desperately lost, and suddenly agitated, as if he wished to speak.

"Good my Lord, we shall be gone ere evening falls. And if I may, I should like to request a word with this fellow," Bernt added, indicating the scholar. "As was the late Prince, he was ever our patron and friend."

Fortinbras regarded Horatio with thoughtful amusement, as if he somehow doubted a poor scholar could have afforded to provide such patronage. Nonetheless, he nodded and said, "Take your leave, Horatio. I shall not require you again for some hours."

"Your Highness, _much_ thanks," breathed the young man, bowing hastily. His voice was level, but shot through with a raw, fathomless grief.

Geirr saw the four of them out and left them in the corridor, sweeping back through the great doors just as they shut. Dazed, Horatio took a few steps in the direction of the nearest window before his knees seemed to buckle. Jens, ever quick to notice danger to those near him, caught the scholar just in time. Grethe hastened to take his other arm, her eyes soft with pity. Bernt directed them to a stone bench not far from the window, where Jens and Grethe settled the poor lad down. For the first time, Bernt noticed that he clasped a small, battered book fiercely with both hands.

"In all truth," said Horatio, smiling unsteadily, "I do not know what to do."

Bernt crouched in front of him, nodding sympathetically. Grethe and Jens sat on either side of him, still holding onto his trembling arms. _What a strange scene this must seem_ , Bernt thought, reaching out to touch the book in Horatio's hands.

"It contains the play, does it not?" he asked.

" _The Mousetrap_ ," said Horatio, his voice breaking slightly. "Amongst other things."

Bernt nodded, patting the backs of Horatio's hands. "Our good Prince would have wished you to have it."

Horatio's eyes drifted, wide and distant. "He placed it in my hands as he lay dying," he whispered. "As he lay in my arms, sir. _Dying_."

Grethe swallowed a little sob, stroking Horatio's shoulders.

Gravely, Bernt nodded, grappling with his tears. He had ever been fond of Hamlet, and his love had likewise extended to the Prince's closest companions. To think that he had lived to see the death of one not much older than Jens—

"He loved you well," he said, composing himself. "As well as he loved any man."

"No," said Horatio, clutching the book to his chest with taut fervor. "No, _better_."

Grethe shushed him, by now stroking his hair. "Lamb, you must be calm. You must decide where you will go. Has Fortinbras asked you to stay?"

Horatio shook himself, as if he hadn't heard her. He didn't seem to notice the tears streaming down his cheeks, not any more than he seemed to notice that she'd cooed to him as she'd done with Jens when he was small.

"For a time," he said. "Until he has got from me what information he wants."

"I should think you were hardly in possession of state secrets," said Bernt, wryly.

Horatio smiled slightly, shaking his head. "No. But he knows, as you say, that the Prince loved me. With such status comes privilege."

"Bastard," said Jens, under his breath.

"Don't speak ill of him," said Horatio, unexpectedly. "I would not wish this on anyone."

"Of course not," said Grethe, straightening up now that he seemed to be calmer.

"It'll take some time," said Bernt. "But when such time has passed, you should return to your studies. A young man is nothing without knowledge."

"I have more knowledge than I can carry, sir," said Horatio, bitterly.

Grethe let go of him, folding her hands in her lap. Jens said nothing.

"Then return home," Bernt said, rising, groaning slightly at the stiffness in his knees.

Horatio gazed up at him almost plaintively. "Sir, I _have_ no home. What family I had are long—and _lately_ —dead."

Bernt sighed. "Then you must do what you deem right, good Horatio."

Horatio let his eyes drift down to the book, which now rested in his lap.

"I shall stay until I am no longer required," he said simply. "Where will _you_ go? There are far too many ghosts in Elsinore for you to remain."

Bernt shrugged, looking to Grethe and Jens for assistance. They just stared back.

"We'll leave Denmark for a time," he said. "I've heard there's a right fuss in England. London is theater-hungry. We may fare better there."

Horatio considered this for a few moments, as if it interested him.

"They will have heard of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, who were put to death," he said, almost irrelevantly. "And they will soon hear of what has happened here, and put two and two together. Gossip is a worthy seafarer."

"No doubt we _would_ do well," Grethe said, giving Bernt a pointed look. "If there were such interest, if they knew where we had been—"

"It's bad business," said Jens. "We don't have a large enough company, besides."

Horatio rose, drawing himself up to his full height before Bernt. He seemed almost as imposing as the Prince had been in life. "Take the copies, then, if you have them," he said. "Hamlet would have wished it so. And if you should see fit to alter these events in any wise, please know—"

On impulse, Bernt bowed. "Good sir, I have not the skill to do so."

"Men will do what they will do," said Horatio, his eyes clouded and wild. "You know he thought highly of you. I pray you, _please_ do right by him."

"I could no sooner do aught," said Bernt, clasping Horatio's hands about the book, "than I could vilify you. But there _are_ villains in this tale."

Horatio sighed, pulling away, and began to wander up the corridor. "Though I don't know who they are," he murmured, pausing, glancing back over his shoulder. "I only know what I love, and what I love is what I have lost."

Grethe dashed to follow him when he did not slow his progress away from them.

"You were with him," she said, her whisper echoing off the flagstones. "When he died. And you were with him in life, Horatio. So shall you ever be."

Horatio paused again, but he did not turn to look at her. "Soon," he said. "Very soon. Godspeed you to England."

 _God help you_ , thought Bernt, pulling Grethe back to his side. He _hoped_ that they still had the copies, somewhere amidst their belongings. And he hoped, too, that they would all make a good end. _For Prince Hamlet's sake, Horatio. And yours._


End file.
